


To The Soul

by Foegerfeax



Category: X-Club, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 08:58:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12767511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foegerfeax/pseuds/Foegerfeax
Summary: Dr. Nemesis ruminates on the meaning of costume choice.





	To The Soul

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a long time ago.

A man almost half as smart as I am once said that the eyes are the window into the soul, but he was wrong. I almost feel bad for him; it's kind of pathetic to say something that's obviously supposed to be deeply metaphorical and get it so very wrong.

 

I hate being wrong. That's why I always make sure I'm not.

 

... I also hate taking showers. And sleeping. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate hygiene and rest as much as the next genius (Lord knows I'm a wreck without either sleep or coffee, and no one enjoys being filthy), but I detest taking off my mask.

 

I like being Doctor Nemesis; he has a classy costume. He is snarky and aloof, with an ego six light-years long and a tough exoskeleton immune to insults and any kind of weapon you can throw at it. His wit never travels at less than mach-3. He is self-assured, and assured that his self is the best self that could be assured, period. I like that feeling. I am the best, after all. It's only right.

 

I mean, James Bradley is a genius, and snarky and aloof and everything else Doctor Nemesis is, but I'm faking. Not completely, but sort of. James Bradley has more of a semi-permeable membrane than diamond-hard crustacean armor.

 

When most so-called "super heroes" put on their masks to hide their identities, they cover the eyes and sometimes the nose; never the mouth. I do, though. And the surgical mask was never just to keep me from breathing in stupidity particles, either. The mouth is the window to the soul, and I don't need the unwashed rabble poking around in mine.

 

(Actually, why do they call themselves "superheroes"? Isn't that a tad egotistical for a bunch of lunatics who claim they're selfless? And everyone says _I'm_ narcissistic. I ask you.)

 

"The mouth being the window to the soul" sounds like some kind of joke, but I don't mean anything to do with food. Mouths express emotion, and leave imprints of what they have felt predominately in the past. You can tell if someone frowns more often than he smiles just by looking at the faint creases in the skin around his mouth, the layered ghosts of feelings from before.

 

When I step out of the shower, dripping wet and clean at least for a moment, James Bradley greets me in the steamed-up mirror; all mournful eyes and straggly blondish hair and a pale, thin body that doesn't exercise as often as it should. Too much time spent peering at Petri's and classifying nanite-active encephelapods. James Bradley is the slob who only ever appears when I towel myself dry after a shower or when I stumble into the bathroom, bleary-eyed and wan after another bad night's sleep, at five o'clock to start getting ready for the day. He holds towels around his waist and fumbles at the buttons of pajamas, but Doctor Nemesis wears an immaculate suit and surgical mask and that perfect hat. Like I said, classy costume.

 

I actually have a faint tan line from my mask. It's almost funny.

 

Almost.

 

Doctor Nemesis spends more time in the sun than I do.

 

Why do I wear the mask, to cover my mouth, so much? When I look in the mirror and James Bradley stares accusingly back, his brow is furrowed from years of sarcasm and scintillating wit, but his mouth has no lines at all. Not really. I don't smile or frown behind my medical gauze mask; there's no reason. I don't want my soul open for the uneducated proletariat to read and I damn well don't see any reason it should be. Transparency is practically a sin in today's rapid-fire world.

 

And... It kind of scares me. I don't think I _feel_ as much as I should, and other people seem horrified at my indifference when someone injures themselves in a fit of idiocy (this happens often around here) or starts whining about relationship problems (even more frequent). For God's sake, what am I, dear-sodding-Abby? I. Don't. Care.

 

But everyone seems to think I should.

 

They give me angry glares as if to say "Honestly, stop it with the act. You're not cool. She's hurt." In fact, people have outright said this to my face. Insolent whelps. Well, maybe she should try, I don't know, NOT going up against a mutant-killer robot six times her size? Exercising some instinct for self-preservation?

 

Anyways. Eyes are expressive, but the lines near eyes that come from frowning and scowling and beaming all look the same to the mundane observer. And I don't _need_ to look stoic; the morons I'm surrounded with have to see my scorn and derision and detached amusement at their bumbling attempts at appearing literate, because I suspect they don't fully understand the words I use to express the same. Someone needs to put them in their place.

 

Still though, the mask is mostly for filtering out stupidity particles. And even so, I don't wear it all the time.

 

I like putting my costume on over still-damp hair. It feels like coming home, like putting on armor that is more myself than I am. Does that make any sense?

 

I don't know. I don't know.

 

My mouth is covered now, my soul safe from tawdry voyeurs.

 

Time for another day's work.

 

Science, ho!


End file.
